DARIEN VALENTINE
“Some say the world will end in fire, some ice, and still others claim humanity… If there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Valentine will screw us all.”
-For one, she walked on the soles of her feet- Wolves; we do not walk on the soles of our feet. Never once did I see her cry, even in her. . . Last moments, even as bitter sweet as they were, something I’ve never seen in a courtesan of her lilt. She was spontaneous, impossible to read, and for a time, I was content with one, the one, I was certain, for she was everything at once and subtle enough to put peace to my thirst. She would have made an excellent feeder. I’ll save the sting that the story would inflict, but all too soon, her life was taken. Partially my fault, and it would seem barbarous to some, but it’s all the same to me. Her name rests like a headstone on my back, branded on my hide; the ache slowly drinking my soul is a constant reminder that no matter how physically correct I am, her lot was cast short, and to me it will mean naught.
I do not eat as my brethren do. I sustain myself off blood. Wolf blood. It’s difficult to live off just that, of course. In order to do so I’d be forced to slaughter a great number of my own kind, which I’d be happy to do, would it not eventually extinguish my food supply. As a supplement, I’ll often eat their flesh as well. For this reason it’s very difficult for me to see them as social companions, and not nourishment. After my moiety expired, I slew myself. Once again, highly unlikely. But let me promise you that I am still breathing; I’ve just conveniently shut off my emotions. I don’t see myself being cruel as I take the life of a child, a father, a young woman. I see a predator devouring his prey. I don’t weep for the failing health of an elder. I see a cloud dissipating to make room for more resilient sunlight. To feel is to harbor weakness. I do not shy away when I see a mutilated face; I am not enthralled by former wounds, nor do I find them as a sign of strength. Should I be blind when the miscarriage of defense appears? I see someone who allowed themselves to be blemished. -
My thanks to the corresponding person, her services were and still are much appreciated though her body has given out. I identified, as soon as I crossed into this elusive woodland, the chrysalis. Would you not have the elite in the category that I do, I doubt that you would have sensed it. But like dulcet condensation, it stuck to the roof of my mouth with the petition of vinegar. This was a place of fortification, a meat locker nestled into the very folds of time, enchanted. Carnage in a place of worship would be a challenge in itself, a challenge to myself. A challenge long accepted. I did not need further instruction on her passing, I was repentant, and perhaps I’d go as far as to be sorry for what I had done- for reasons beyond this world- but I was surely not broken. I knew my place, and it was not amongst the feral brutality of Malignant Felicity, or, and I’m sure they’d place it far from them to disagree, ‘Wicked Pleasure’. Not that I did not approve, I did. But they were too chaotic; a loose cannon without a steady purpose was assured to drive off the path and succumb to the dark foolishness of self-desire. Saw Tooth, agreeably upholding, courteous and trained in the etiquette of pack life. Not unlike a large family, if I recall it fitting to memory. Solely too sympathetic, I could not rest with an easy conscious should I chose their lavish manors as my hunting grounds. Others on varying degrees between these two packs are equally immoral, or just as wholesome, but when the dust settled, the sand sifted, only one kingdom rose above. And at their borders I loiter.
My primary thought, understandably, as I stood on this sought after soil was ‘how could such a supposed potency live here?’ I’ve grown to appreciate that in these placid waters, just below the superficial exterior, is an agitated, churning current of discipline, callous prerogative, and, finally, a monster. From one liege to another, what is it to me? Each with his or her own set of libretto to wield, barely skimming the surface of what bellicosity could be, I don’t expect to linger. But yet, who am I to predict the future? I may learn to love this king, to hate or grow passionate in my drudgery. I do not mind the patience needed, I will not croon. Here I am, and I hope you do find me. Good things come to those who wait, correct? Say hello, Abendrot.. I am feeling rather. . . . Ravenous.
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