#the night to remember (ladysunbite ic replies)

[ladysunbite]

18 and 08 / A  PEAK  AT  WHAT’S  INSIDE  THEIR

A  PEAK  AT  WHAT’S  INSIDE  THEIR meme 08.     wallet.

the pouch necessary for short walks through Beauclair, contains breadcrumbs of small coin. Orianna prefers to travel through the city at the slumber-heat of a noon - a true enchanted kingdom, soaked in sun and honey, where only dreams fill the streets. No noonwraith would find a victim there, for the traditions are sacred, and every citizen surrenders to the cooling embrace of a slumber with the faithfulness of a first-time lover. Only crows grow brazen enough under the straightforward sun and stumble across the cobblestones, alongside the silken, vaporous dreams. The sun-eyed often feeds the birds, and for that purpose keeps dried apple seeds in the pouch. The crows accept nothing else, in their barbaric extravagance, adamant to sink their talons into the unexplainable tradition of their own, all logic polished away by time. Sometimes they accept fresh pastries, but the cultured vampiress hates the stickiness of butter, poppy seeds and honey, even if the latter is the customary feast for the death's harbingers. The other favourite time of hers is twilight, a wink between hours, essentially timeless. This is the hour when the capital truly wakes and begin to live and breath, through the windows of robust taverns and vine-gilded restaurants, the golden light they spill upon the cobblestones are like the tresses of a sleeping beauty. The true music of the evening are the silvery bells of hurried footsteps, a sound sharp and sweet amidst the hum of the crowd that classic prelude of clandestine trysts. Orianna collects that sounds like children do pebbles, for nothing more than their useless loveliness. The coins clutter and clunk into the proudly posted hats of street artists, with the same benevolence as the seeds are distributed among the crows. Many recognize the mistress of the Mandragora, but rarely anyone grows desperate enough to break the veil of the eerie and speak to the negligently masked woman. There walks a beast in a skin of a maiden, whispers the humanly cunning into their ear. It is not beneficial to break lady's noble incognito, the worldly manners reshape the dread.

18.     “secret” hiding spot.

The gallery overlooking the Madgragora's inner atrium offers not much concealment. Still, the stairs leading to it are adorned with two towering guards, coldly polite and as unmoving as the marble columns behind their backs. Both are shaped as muscular, yet unmistakingly female, giantesses. Orianna pleads guilty that the congenial visual similarity played a great part in her choosing of the men for the post. Despite the little caprice, they perform their duties with polished perfection, equally smooth in keeping away a duke and a lute-weithed vagabond. Locks can be picked, the living proof of it are probing her grounds, dressed in ribbons, pearls and identical smiles stolen from the stars themselves, oh so brightly they twinkle. Orianna sighs in a half-sincere annoyance, watching the crowd below, waves after waves of murmuring sounds. The best place of concealment is in a plain sight. The gallery offers the cultured vampiress just that, as she drinks the sight and the sound. Her hearing grew overly sensitive, as her memory grappled with the ancient revelations and her body ripened in the darkness of "The Old Garden", and that longing marked her. Her long, pale throat learned to produce what her hapless, solitude-drained mind craved - the sweetest sounds. Another treat for her children. In absence of a touch Orianna settled for the phrases cut in half by distance like ripe pomegranates, whispers of fabrics and clutter of goblets, thin and shy pleading of strings - the feast of sensations the soirees at the Mandragora offered its mistress. No wonder her annoyance is but a cracked mask; she can not be sour while caressed by what is essentially a lover's touch...

[ladysunbite]

length

for the immortals meme || other replies length: how long does my muse want to live? do they think they’ve lived long enough, already? 

ORIANNA I have lived long enough to realize that death is kinder to the other races, even elves, than to my kindred. With a considerable effort such feat as a complete destruction of the body is possible, but not by such toys as witcher blades or sorcery tricks. Anathema is not a merciful caprice of the ancient laws. However, a body is a fanciful casket, nothing more. You can imagine what happens when a casket is destroyed, but the mind is set roaming in agony, in a senseless void. It is not a ghost, either, for ghosts have power to channel their energy and connect to the world. We have only ourselves, wrapped around ourselves, wrapped around ourselves...the depraved ouroboros has no end. I do not think I have lived little enough to long for a romanticized slap of masochism, or long enough to become senile and willingly exchange existence for slavery. However, a new haircut may be a long due...

time: is there any time period / era my muse has lived through that they wish they could go back to?

ORIANNA Local peasants have a proverb ' there is no time like the present'. With Her Enlightened Ladyship leading the game, the present is as full of surprises as a party of gwent. I would not exchange it for eternity, if you catch my meaning.

[ladysunbite]

⏰ What is the first memory Lady Orianna remembers from her "chilldhood"?

Peek into my muses’ memories !

"The caves contain the true night. If I can see the stars of this world there, why I never see the blinded moon?" "It is not stars you see, tal'e. These are stalactites that glow. A formation of minerals." "...I want to see the stars. And the blinded moon." "No." "It is too early for you to venture outside and be fouled by the rays of the moon that is maimed, that is not ours." The fledgling does not screech in protest, demanding her wish with the unseemly hunger of the young. Instead, Thezanna nods and returns to contemplating the darkness, quite and collected, the hymns dripping from her dry lips in a preparation for the approaching Full Moon. The Unseen has chosen wisely and a barest flicker of feeling stirs in him - of satisfaction, of safety. It is promptly extinguished. The Stepworld would be cruel to this child, any kindness or mercy from his hands are a self-serving lie that would only make Thezanna's lot more rancid and bitter further down the road. However, the desire grows in Thezanna's heart, its root stealthy and strong. Soon she can think of naught else, and the only thing that saves her from injuring herself while travelling the endless passages in the belly of Hen Gàidh, the deepest levels where the darkness is soundless, dimensionless, is the familiarity. Mayhapse this, or the place took a liking to little Thezanna, her hair like a drop of blood to its parched walls, and the beating of her wish is the only stirring in a place where nothing grows. The stars find her in the end. Thezanna's eyes, susceptible to the barest change in the monotony of the landscape, catches the novelty with he swiftness and craving of a predator. The fledgling launges forward on all fours...and stops just in time to sniff around carefully. The stars are asymmetrically shaped, not one alike the other, dull on the outside and iridescent on the inside. As Thezanna studies them, awed and meticulous, a sharp side cuts her finger. She gasps. Blood is a potent, sacred thing. What if those stars wished not of her sacrifice, what if it was offensive and profane, untimely? With trembling hands she brings one closer, gulping down the last nacreous glimpses of the beautiful.

There is a sound. Murmuring, caressing, building up and filling up the darkness around with the last missing piece of a riddle. Thezanna smiles and brings the star closer to her ear, wrapping it into the slick waterfall of her crimson hair, rocking back and forth. Now the voice is returned to the darkness. The world around her opens up bit by bit, horrors and wonders equally welcome for the little fledgling, who learned how to observe ah, so well. Orianna had never discovered who brought her those seashells, but the mystery sits comfortably in the curve of her ear. It is a rare thing that the cultured vampiress can enjoy unanswered.

[ladysunbite]

ORIANNA how other races perceive my kin through space and time (*) never fails to annoy and amuse me in equal measure. Why, by the heron, why do they insist we make such a joyous, if not to say deranged, face when we unsheathe our fangs before a bite?

[ladysunbite]

from

Agitate my muse!

Perhaps not necessarily a precise question, but did Lady Orianna ever have any human lovers?

agitate my muse meme || accepting

ORIANNA In any other place than Beauclair such question spoken aloud to a lady would have gained you a slap against your cheek or a blade against your throat. Which always have confused me. Human mating traditions are most peculiar. No matter how long you study them there are still places that tease and stare blankly at you. Broadly speaking, a human lover would be considered a perversity amidst my kin. In our very perilous case, such an affair is a worthless undertaking, with too much restraint and too little pleasure. Curiosity, however, is a mother to many perversities and so was mine. Once. Mayhapse, twice. Depending on where you would care to place a human cursed with immortality. [ agitation level: 3 out of 10 ]

[ladysunbite]

were regis and orianna ever a couple?

agitate my muse meme || accepting

ORIANNA Why, is this theory is born out of a chance mention, carelessly fallen from the mouth of my dear old friend? Is he still pining after a certain red-haired vampiress that he could build a future with, but a blood-addiction proved to be a more demanding mistress? I assure you, I am not that woeful lady. If anything, it's the absence of future that drew us to each other in the first place. Both of us needed an escape - a little death, if you forgive the pun. And as youth wills, was looking for it in a wrong place, at a wrong time. Besides, I had the most extravagant and comfortable sarcophagus out of the whole pack, I could not blame darling Regis for the presence of good taste, at foul times.

[ agitation level: 5 out of 10 ]

[ secret information on the two which the sun-eyed would not surrender, she does not bite and tell ( not in details ) ! ]

[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? ]