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Huntress


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#1 Laufey

Posted 23 November 2002 - 09:56 PM

The hunt is joy.

As she slips noiselessly through the darkness the sound of the human’s ragged breathing is loud in her ears. The frenzied beating of his heart is an enticing song, seductive in its vulnerability. The woman smiles as she steps out of the shadows, allowing her prey a fleeting glimpse of her. Just one glimpse of moonpale skin, of midnight black short locks, of ruby lips. The young man stops abruptly, gasping. His eyes are so very wide with fear, a lovely tribute to her skills. Dark blue eyes, moist with unshed tears. The woman allows her smile to widen just a little bit and is rewarded with a halfchoked but still audible sob. That will be enough for now. She lets the mists envelop her, becomes one with them, takes on their form and substance. Drifting away, floating through the void. As always she thinks that this is almost like dying once more. Almost, but not quite. Nothing quite compares to death. But the hunt comes close.

The hunt is life.

She likes to vary her hunting methods. Sometimes she will strike swiftly out of the shadows, pouncing on her chosen one like some great and savage cat, clawing and tearing. The absolute terror of a surprise attack brings her much satisfaction. Sometimes she choses to engage in conversation with some passing stranger, luring him slowly away from the rest of the human herd. If she finds a victim truly worthy of her attention however, the games get more elaborate. Such is the case tonight. This particular prey is a young nobleman, a fine creature indeed. A nicely proportioned young body he has, clean of limb and strong of muscle. Shining dark hair, a ready smile, beautiful eyes of darkest blue are his. Moreover, he is a true gentleman, as kind and tender with his loved ones as he is fierce with his foes. Yes, a good man. She promises herself to make his death exquisite. He deserves no less.

She has stalked him for months now, patient like a cat in front of a mousehole. Slowly worming her way into his heart, letting him delude himself into believing that he is the one doing the seducing. Tonight she has finally agreed to a tryst with him, away from the prying eyes of all others. Where before he might have balked at meeting a lover in the cemetery he is now perfectly agreeable. As he gazes into her dark eyes he congratulates himself silently upon being about to end the hunt. Little does the poor fool know. The hunt is not what it seems.

The hunt is death.

The young nobleman has been both surprised and relieved to find his lady love actually waiting for him in the appointed place. He has feared it might have been some cruel jest, tricking him into this deserted place. She has been known to be cruel before. To clumsy servants. To awkward suitors. Never to him though. Still, there has been the smallest doubt. But there she is, seated upon a tombstone like some restless spirit. He sighs to himself and contemplates her beauty. Never has he seen its equal. Those clean and perfect lines of her face. So perfect as to seem a living statue, almost inhuman if not for the eyes like lustrous pools of darkness. He wants to lose himself in those black eyes, submerge himself and never look back. So deep. So dark. Her feelings impossible to divine from their expression. Now and then a flicker of joy, of excitement, maybe of sorrow. Never long enough to be certain. She is mystery, irresistible temptation. Raven locks slide across her white neck as she turns around to face her lover. A slim hand beckons him closer. Right. Next. To. Her. He is seated on the tomb and cannot remember how he came to be here. There is only the darkness of her eyes, the whiteness of her skin. Oh, that skin! Like the smoothest of silks, but cool. He hesitates momentarily. Then he understands. With the heat coursing through his blood tonight, of course she would feel cool by comparison. And she has been sitting here, waiting for him. Overcome with remorse he bends towards her, thinking to apologize for his tardiness. Lightningswift, her arms snake around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Soft hands slide across his back, sending shivers up and down his spine. Velvety soft her skin may be, but there is hidden strength beneath. For a moment the young man imagines himself to be caught in the arms of an implacable living statue, cold and emotionless. Then those black eyes meet his again and the feeling melts away. Is this not the woman he loves? The curve of her lower lip entrances him. So soft, so full, so red. The lips open wide with a warm and welcoming smile. And the young lover screams. At last he sees the truth.

The hunt is for the blood.

The hunt has been going on for some time now. It is no easy feat keeping the prey away from the crowded streets, from the light and noise and the safety of other people. She loves the challenge. First you must allow the prey to run for a little while. In the freshness of his terror he will always exert himself too much. Frantic to escape, his mind is easily ensnared by her will. All it takes is a nudge here, a gentle probing there. Far from escaping into safety the prey runs into deserted streets, the pityless jungle of the city. Sometimes she will allow him to catch sight of her, driving him in the proper direction. Oh, yes. A good hunt. A time or two he has almost broken free and it has taken all her skill to turn him around. Others of her kind might cooperate to drive the prey thus, but she will only hunt alone. She is no pack animal, she is the queen, and the prey will not escape her. His heartbeat echoes through the streets, thick and meaty as the organ pumps the lifeblood through his strong body. The scent of fear is strong in the air. She pauses and sniffs it, closing her eyes in ecstasy. Fear is only an appetizer. There is the scent of blood as well. When last she showed herself her nails scratched a leisurely mark across his chest, claiming him for her own. Sweet scent of blood. It tingles in her nostrils, teases her with promises of what is to come. Sweet the scent of innocent blood, the greatest of gifts.

The blood brings life.

It is time to bring the hunt to a close, she decides. It has been a good hunt, but it must end as all good things do. She has turned the prey around and they are back where they started. Smiling she slips between the graves in mistform, drawn by the sound of broken sobs. He is on the ground now, clutching a hand to his torn chest, staring at the wetness as if unable to believe his eyes. She takes on her own form and gently strokes his neck, feeling the heat of the hunt radiate from him, his lungs breathing heavily from the chase, the strength of his beating pulse beneath her inhuman fingers. So strong. So warm. So very much alive. The man shivers at her touch. He might have fought. He might have struggled. He does not. He simply leans into her embrace with a sound halfway between laughter and crying and returns her kisses. And her lips are cold, oh so cold, and her tongue a chip of ice against his skin, inside his mouth. She wants to drain the heat from him, take it for her own to replace the emptiness inside her. But he has to breathe, even if she can do without, and she reluctantly ends the kiss.

"But why?", the young man whispers as she cradles him close to her. "Bodhi, why?"

"Oh, my beautiful darling", she responds, and there is the slightest trace of sadness in her voice. "Why else, if not for love?"

"You love me?", the man asks, hopeful at last.

The fangs are needles of ice, of purest fire. The pain as they pierce his his skin is pure bliss, surpassing any ordinary act of love. Every fibre of his body, every strand of his soul is joined to her, feeding her darkness, feeling her close to him. He does not feel the blood pouring out of his artery, he feels only her suddenly hot and hungry mouth upon his neck. He does not hear the faltering beat of his heart, he hears only the soft cries and moans she makes in her feeding and to him they are cries of love. He does not see the moonlight on her skin, the red and hellish light in her eyes, the darkness of her hair. He sees only the dreamimages, the halfforgotten memories of an elven maiden, lovely belief and lost so long ago to living death and darkness.

The blood brings death.

Bodhi reluctantly lets go of her lover. So strong this one. She had hoped he might last a little longer. Sighing contentedly she leans his lifeless body back against the tombstone and closes his sightless eyes. There is the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. She returns the smile, feeling the tips of her fangs kiss her lower lip. This moment immediately after feeding is always the most satisfying. Along with the blood, along with the life she feels as if she is almost able to regain what was taken from her so long ago. The sharper the pain of the prey, the fiercer the love, the more she is able to remember of her stolen soul.

"No, darling", Bodhi whispers as she turns to leave. "I do not love you. I can not love you. But thanks to your gift, I can almost remember what that word used to mean."

The blood brings love.
Rogues do it from behind.




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