#the night to remember (ladysunbite ic replies)

[ladysunbite]

...It is most curious how human children are drawn towards all kind of gory, violent things. One might think they are katakans teething, and their soft skin and weak bones are but a decoration, donned to deceive the eye. I can imagine that infamous, sarcastic smile, bleeding into the corner of your mouth - look, who is talking? Regardless, they sleep worse if I sing to them of gentle lambs and fluffy clouds. Nothing less of being dragged away into a dark forest, lured into a lair of a cannibal witch, or being gobbled alive by a witcher would do. Then, their little hearts, tickled by the gossamer wings of fright, are beating calmly until the sun rises. Thusly, if you learn any new lullabies - the more terrifying, the better - kindly write them down and pass them to me. I am running out of options. Asking around would only arouse an array of questions I do not appreciate. [ an extract from orianna's letter to emiel regis ]

[ladysunbite]

"Why? Because I am a woman? In a frock, rather than plate? I can take care of myself, I assure you." andddd "...invited Regis in for a glass of wine. We've known each other for... oh, ages, literally." all from quest within orianna's estate in game

Send me a quote from my character’s canon and they will share EXACTLY what went through their minds when they said it, and how they currently feel about it || accepting

"Why? Because I am a woman? In a frock, rather than plate? I can take care of myself, I assure you."

My, my, what a blunder, master witcher. Haven't you learned that interrupting bruxa at her music, any beast at its feast - low or high, it matters not - would awaken their ultimate wraith? I am past my mayhem years, where I would flash my fangs at strangers, yet I can allow myself to be annoyed. Slightly. No, I don't think that female species should engage in what their male counterparts do better and with much more headless joy. I got that goblet filled to the brim when we made bets with Emiel "who could drink a whole village faster" during our adolescence. To be distastefully honest, I am at loss about the modern battle of genders. Mayhapse, it's due to my nature and upbringing. I was never shunned of any right or responsibility because I have a pair of breasts, apa thunculla could not care less. You know, our species even rumoured to be able to switch our genders, like dopplers, if a clan is in danger of extinction. That has never been put to trial, nor do I long to try it. I prefer my tailored frocks, thank you. What I do loath is boorish manners. As much as I loath thieves stinking of cheap drink, sweat and gutter pawing through my jewelry box. Have you not been listening to a word of my story, have you? I pride myself at my skill of a storyteller, it's my sweet caprice, a glass of young, fragrant blood to the lips of my heart, a sip of rose at a balmy death of summer. Look how her Enlightened Ladyship was enjoying my tale, the masterfully crafted fight scene that suspended a huge chunk of disbelief....only for you to stumble into my narrative, your truth is like a mud-encrusted boot to the door. All very smart and true-to-nature, but no less...crude. After a few years, I know what Her Grace prefers to hear, the topic is a personal one for her and would probably gain me a grain of her goodwill. That affair with the heart of Toussaint left a bad taste, which is needed to be sugarcoated, but not bluntly. Little does she know that she owns me much more than that. Instead of mingling in philosophy, the evilness of women and the goodness of men, I acted. Wrote a few letters, gained a few answers, mixed up a goblet or two at a certain house of ill-repute, all without putting on a chainmail or asking the pathetic creature to a duel. Power can be delicate or power can stuck a hairpin into an intruder's throat. It's a balance, not a gender, you see. But I digress...

[ladysunbite]

it has already been mentioned that Orianna has no favourites, but is there perhaps an orphan who has stolen her heart?

ORIANNA That would be a rare case where our two warring cultures agree. Such an occurrence would be highly incident. It would pollute the results of the experiment and sow the root of discord among the children. Not everything in Toussaint should be a tourney pageant, aimed to win one's affection. ORIANNA ( stops, as if listening to something ) Besides, it is well enough that I have another child upon my hands recently. A heart stolen tends to make a terrible racket. One more reason not to get entangled in such follies. Love wearing a crown is still a thief.

[ladysunbite]

pls 17 and 21 from 30 multipurpose prompts

30 multipurpose prompts [ 21]

[ladysunbite]

from

30 multipurpose prompts, open to interpretation 14 & 15

30 multipurpose prompts [ 15 ] || open

-Please, let's go home... A small, sticky hand slips into her own. The sun-eyed shudders, as gravid sky looms over her, one eye cruelly gorged out by some unknown force. In this world they have only one moon. The unnatural wrongfulness of it sings vibrant in the marrow of her bones. The wind grows stronger in the depth of the woods and caresses the back of her neck with the smell of pine and wet earth. A part of her feels too exposed here, in the open where the maimed moon can see her. A part of her longs for the blindness and the caves. - Home? a wry chuckle. We do not have a home here, silly marish. Learn it well, cut it at the tips of your little fangs, we are orphans in this world. And we have nothing and nowhere to go to... Orianna closes her eyes and the memory gets swallowed by the darkness under her eyelids. The vampiress does not need to breeze, but the steady, chiseled action, the ritual of it, calms her down and banishes an itch to rub her eyelids. That would be a sign of weakness. Intolerable indulgence in front of the human cubs. The old papers at Tesham Mutna insisted the humans need occasional exercise for their fragile bodies and fresh air for their lungs, and as a test she took out the flock to the Caroberta Woods, by the paths no one but an ancient creature would traverse. The curious eyes would tempt a gossiping tongue. Of course, she could always say those were...mmm....orphans under her care. It was not unheard for a lady of rank to indulge in a charity of choice, some saint of theirs also cared for the cubs, saving the poor lost souls from the maw of the woods. The painting, dedicated to the story, was freshly hang in a hall at Mandragora, a delicious piece that caught the malachite leaves dancing under the velvety breath of the night perfectly... The memory moved her feet, pulling the threads of present and the past as if the sun-eyed was its puppet, and unbeknownst to herself led her to the very same spot she had a conversation with Dettlaff many-many years ago. The forest did not change. The sky was still blinded and the wind chilling and earthy at her skin. The cubs shivered, but breathed it thirstily. And yet something had changed. The harsh words she lashed at her little brother, a growl of the heart, seemed...not even an old wound. The pain was absent, like some murky stage of a childhood. Milk fangs.

-M'lady, please... A small sticky hand slipped into her own. Before Orianna could separate the layers of time, fully return to her human-like skin and chide the impudent human eterau for daring to touch her... - You are cold. The sun-eyed stool still. That little thing in front of her, a blood vessel and nothing more, was worried about her? The words and the gesture were devoid of the spine-bending, salivating flattery, even if the little heart beat like a bird in a cage. Afraid. But not of her.

The boy pulled her arm gently, his blue flower-like eyes half-blind in the gathering dusk, his steps both clumsy and determined. She allowed him to walk her away from the cliff edge, the tiny stones falling down into the abyss, like tears of some forsaken dryad. The fall would do nothing to her kin, or course. But the human cub did not know that, of course. And yet...How curious, such a reaction...

Then another hand caught the pale, long fingers of of hers, ignoring the unkindly chill and the armor of jewels, another pressed its cheek to the velvet of her skirts. It was strangely pleasant being touched, even by a fervently burning, sweating fingers. How long was it since another living being touched her and trembled not in dread, urged by the call of the prey to run, to hide or to hurt? -Please, let's go home, lady Orianna... The sun-eyed smiled. For the first time, not careful or coy, not like a predator. The crescent of her mouth showing the tips of her fangs freely and the warmth of the sun basking those in her gaze. The children smiled back. It seems she will need to write to Dettlaff and confess her error.

[ladysunbite]

from DND 5e SKILLS STARTERS perfomance and deception

Two things are known about lady Orianna. For any frequent visitor of Mandragora they are like some fundamental and sacred truths, as certain as the unchanging taste of Est-Est or the ingrained, bone-deep knowledge that the sun shall rise, even after the thickest, grasping darkness of the night. The mistress of Mandragora never wears a mask. The mistress of Mandragora never sings. Once and only once the echoes of her voice travelled through the lavish manor and enthralled the murmuring, merry crowd into a complete, ravenous silence. According to the reports, her voice possess such beauty it makes one heart stop beating, least its sound distracts. It possesses such eerie, indescribable anguish, one longs to cover their ears and mix their blood with wine in order to forget it. The song - no one of the unlucky listeners could find it - haunts you, pierces your soul with memories long-forgotten, memories that do not belong to you, and that you yet yearn to have.

Toussaint is inclined to make a flowery fairy-tale out of any common gossip, after all. Only a certain witcher did not fall under the bizzare charm of that one-time performance. He listened until the very end, did not weep and did not clap. When the sun-eyed mistress of the Mandragora put the lute away, he gave her a crooked grin and she nodded in acknowledgment, a half-crescent of her own smile cutting her cheek ever so slightly. There are certain nights, when the moon seems to double in the sky, and Geralt of Rivia wakes up with a shreds of that song upon his lips. He saw many unspeakable, dark things upon the path - and beyond - but it's Orianna's singing that threads through his nightmares, crawling up his throat from the marrow of his bones. For a song of the higher vampiress' is nothing like one of a bruxa. It is horribly, perfectly human in its longing and its sorrow.

[ladysunbite]

💘 + (dearly) Regis!

kiss and tell time! send 💘 + [ person / topic ] for my muse to disclose something about their love / lust life meme

ORIANNA My, my. What a truly heartless monster I would be, if I left our local horned fauna starving. I am no more in love with my dear Regis than he is with me. However, if he does not reign his tongue in future, I might not be so lenient. [ natanis and nistana: more on what darling sunbite does not say aloud can be found here ]

[ladysunbite]

💘 + Olgierd

kiss and tell time! send 💘 + [ person / topic ] for my muse to disclose something about their love / lust life meme

ORIANNA It is the curse of our land of love and wine, catching up to me at last, I suspect. Years without any dripping morsel of a gossip, a hidden tryst or two and the wagging tongues are eager to pair me up with any man, who enjoys my hospitality and my friendship. Although, I would not been able to fake a more satisfying image for the starving crowd. Mysterious, foreign, handsome and discretely dangerous. Someone has caught an echo of a rumour there was a price upon his head for some daring crimes in 3 kingdoms and that his heart was cursed to remain as still as one of a marble statue, until a kiss of true love made it beat again. In short, Olgierd von Everec is a dream incarnate of any proper Tousaintee maiden. Blessed be the heron, he is more artful with a sword than with a lute. Otherwise, I dread what Her Enlightened Ladyship would do, following the local fashion. Do you know that one of the prized possessions in my collection is a portrait of master von Everec and his wife, a very talented painter in her own right? You do not get deeply involved with a person, whose wife's portrait graces your wall and whose ghost - presumably - walks your halls. That's just another ludicrous and embellished rumour, of course.

[ natanis & nistana: our dear sunbite's denial is...rather fervent, don't you agree? ]