Post by Hilde Ryder on Aug 18, 2012 15:54:52 GMT -5
There were no shortages of willing blood donors in the city. It was akin to the olden days, though, then, people donated for fear of the gods, not because vampirism was a known and naturally occurring phenomenon. Still, little Gothic wannabes were found in ever generation for the past few hundred years, Hilde had long since found. That being, there were no shortage of willing donors. Of course, that didn't mean that every one of Hilde's donors was particularly willing. In fact, most of them weren't. Those in their early twenties and late teens made Hilde painfully aware that the idea of the hunt had vanished on modern technology and it made her nostalgic for the old days, the days of her youth.
As it were, she had hunted. The hunt had been real. A male, still young enough to run and to hold his own with the significant blood loss but not young enough to be considered a child. Hilde really didn't take to taking from children. Motherhood in her youth had made her a demon. Motherhood as she aged had softened her. Or, maybe it was having a girl. In all honesty, she didn't think about it that much. However, she was satiated on blood pumped full of fear and adrenaline. If she could feed off fear alone, she would be quite the fulfilled undead. Something about adrenaline made blood all the better. And, sex and violence were the two best producers of such a hormone. And, two things she had no problem manipulating to her advantage.
Satiated and content, the raven haired woman was laying across the first platform of a fire escape, her feet propped against the railing lining the stairwell, one maroon leather jacket clad arm draped through the bars, fingers twisting and playing in the air. Her loose hair spilled down the first two steps, tickling the third. She was looking up, watching the night flyers flit above her, the stars twinkle in the cloudless night, and listening below her to the sounds of people passing by the alley, the occasional pair of lovers pressing each other up against the brick wall, unaware that their every move was heard. She wasn't intrigued enough to observe visually. If it got beyond heavy petting, she kicked the fire escape calling attention to the fact that the lovers were not alone. The two pairs she had done that to had run off without even looking up.
Now, it had fallen somewhat still. It was just gone midnight. Late enough that people going out were where they wanted to be, but not too late in the evening that the bars and clubs were spilling out over the street sides. Bored, but not enough to actually go do something, Hilde hummed tunelessly before reciting a long since memorized poem.
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, // The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, // The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, // And the highwayman came riding // Riding // riding // The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”
She had met Noyes once. He hadn't impressed her, but she had enjoyed his poem. It was dark, bloody. But, the idea of death for love was what tickled her most. Hilde would not risk death for love. Death for other things, but love was unheard of in her lifetime.
”He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, // A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; // They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh. //And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, // His pistol butts a-twinkle, // His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.”
She smiled as she heard a nearby sound, her feet dropping soundlessly from the bar they were resting on until her feet in their black, short shaft riding boots rested flat against the grate that made up the platform of the fire escape. She was ready to move if she needed to, but she doubted at this juncture that she would need to.
As it were, she had hunted. The hunt had been real. A male, still young enough to run and to hold his own with the significant blood loss but not young enough to be considered a child. Hilde really didn't take to taking from children. Motherhood in her youth had made her a demon. Motherhood as she aged had softened her. Or, maybe it was having a girl. In all honesty, she didn't think about it that much. However, she was satiated on blood pumped full of fear and adrenaline. If she could feed off fear alone, she would be quite the fulfilled undead. Something about adrenaline made blood all the better. And, sex and violence were the two best producers of such a hormone. And, two things she had no problem manipulating to her advantage.
Satiated and content, the raven haired woman was laying across the first platform of a fire escape, her feet propped against the railing lining the stairwell, one maroon leather jacket clad arm draped through the bars, fingers twisting and playing in the air. Her loose hair spilled down the first two steps, tickling the third. She was looking up, watching the night flyers flit above her, the stars twinkle in the cloudless night, and listening below her to the sounds of people passing by the alley, the occasional pair of lovers pressing each other up against the brick wall, unaware that their every move was heard. She wasn't intrigued enough to observe visually. If it got beyond heavy petting, she kicked the fire escape calling attention to the fact that the lovers were not alone. The two pairs she had done that to had run off without even looking up.
Now, it had fallen somewhat still. It was just gone midnight. Late enough that people going out were where they wanted to be, but not too late in the evening that the bars and clubs were spilling out over the street sides. Bored, but not enough to actually go do something, Hilde hummed tunelessly before reciting a long since memorized poem.
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, // The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, // The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, // And the highwayman came riding // Riding // riding // The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”
She had met Noyes once. He hadn't impressed her, but she had enjoyed his poem. It was dark, bloody. But, the idea of death for love was what tickled her most. Hilde would not risk death for love. Death for other things, but love was unheard of in her lifetime.
”He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, // A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; // They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh. //And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, // His pistol butts a-twinkle, // His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.”
She smiled as she heard a nearby sound, her feet dropping soundlessly from the bar they were resting on until her feet in their black, short shaft riding boots rested flat against the grate that made up the platform of the fire escape. She was ready to move if she needed to, but she doubted at this juncture that she would need to.
