Kat J.'s Posts - Cullens Online2024-03-28T22:44:52ZKat J.http://thecullensonline.ning.com/profile/KatJarvishttp://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3144278776?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1http://thecullensonline.ning.com/profiles/blog/feed?user=3u3b2zdf5iifb&xn_auth=noribbons -- third person, Jane POVtag:thecullensonline.ning.com,2018-06-30:3404507:BlogPost:12162052018-06-30T01:00:00.000ZKat J.http://thecullensonline.ning.com/profile/KatJarvis
<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She appears with eyes red like strands of velvet, ribbons resembling that of those she pours with anger just as potent.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She coddles the toddler with a mocking expression, it’s mother’s screams falling on seemingly deaf ears, a twisted countenance with all emotions but grief, perhaps anger. An immortal child, a broken little thing with a hunger more insatiable than any other…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She appears with eyes red like strands of velvet, ribbons resembling that of those she pours with anger just as potent.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She coddles the toddler with a mocking expression, it’s mother’s screams falling on seemingly deaf ears, a twisted countenance with all emotions but grief, perhaps anger. An immortal child, a broken little thing with a hunger more insatiable than any other newborn, a creature worth twice the name. She feels nothing but hatred, a vexation so hot it boiled her frozen veins, and melted the black ice of her insides.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">She too was a tempter, a young monster destined for a seat of greatness, a gluttonous existence of attention and admiration succeeded by fear; not only was she gifted with a talent unchallenged, but she was so</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">young</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">. It was her blessing, her form of power among those with years well above her own, child-like face and big eyes tainted only by their color that appeared the most unwelcoming, sharp contrast to the white of her skin almost translucent in texture. Her wrists, that used to bloom with the blue roots that anatomy called veins now run placid like stone. She seems untouchable in her will, lips pursed and eyes forever cold but truthfully, she was enjoying this. She relished the suffering, the torture, knowing her mark was made in destruction. It was a pleasure she partook in feeling like the most powerful person in a situation with hardly having to raise her voice, move a finger of her rather small hands and cause the same pain it took an entire village to cause her.</span></span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She was a war zone, a soldier on a pedestal made of her own burning, a witch not in truth but in existence.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Her fingertips brushing the face of an ice cold child, small enough to fit in her arms despite their own size, and sees nothing but a tool for her own use. The screams push her forward, gaze meeting it’s mother’s eyes with no sign of remorse, no mercy. Someone who does not know their place is not worthy of such things, a vampire with no rules is a savage beyond even their descriptors, a malefactor by the laws of her creator. While he is not, by definition, truly a god, he is a ruler with an iron fist and silver tongue assisted by his followers, by</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">her</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">and by her loyalties, and she would do nothing if not to keep his favor.</span></span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">It takes but moments for her to grow bored, an eternity of shifting chaos breeding into a short temper, an impatience, and just as easily her arms empty. The fire that licks the center of the town, embers drifting into the blackness of the night do not warm her skin, do not make her hiss as they ignite with what could be considered her own kind. She is above the child, her breed nothing like his in her own mind, a difference in hierarchy and being.</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">It</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">was lawless and she is an enforcer, far outgrown the term</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">fledgling</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Her being, her very existence is proof of survival, and she is no longer afraid of fire, of pointed fingers. Now, she stands with a posture that demands respect, demands fear. She is not the victim, but the perpetrator she was destined for, a being that screamed a demand of obedience, of troth, and if not by choice than by blood, by</span> <b><i>pain</i></b><span style="font-weight: 400;">.</span></span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">Black cloaks billow by her feet and while she still feels the remnants of rage, the proof of destruction and of her victory is enough to twitch at her lips, a sadistic lack of empathy that is far too consumed with her own pleasure. She is nothing if not a product of her surroundings, a child raised in equal parts ambition and loyalty for hundreds of years that maintained her sense of twisted purpose.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">She suffered, so in turn, others must suffer for it.</span></p>blood over blood -- Aro POVtag:thecullensonline.ning.com,2018-06-29:3404507:BlogPost:12159222018-06-29T23:00:00.000ZKat J.http://thecullensonline.ning.com/profile/KatJarvis
<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">There are few things that I covet beyond blood and power, and yet in the cruelest twist of fate and fallacy blood becomes the very thing I seek to diminish. Empires built steadily in the name of my coven, the blind worship and ambitious palms filled with nothing but the bitter taste of my hunger slowly quenched lead to, my thrill and contemplation, choices decided entirely in the name of furthering my, or more decidedly,…</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">There are few things that I covet beyond blood and power, and yet in the cruelest twist of fate and fallacy blood becomes the very thing I seek to diminish. Empires built steadily in the name of my coven, the blind worship and ambitious palms filled with nothing but the bitter taste of my hunger slowly quenched lead to, my thrill and contemplation, choices decided entirely in the name of furthering my, or more decidedly,</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">our</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">, success. The term</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">master</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">, a title I have gained through my decisions and bloodshed, the weight of my hand similar to a gavel surrounding my court, has lead to responsibilities that weigh me down as strongly as I desire them. The sick proclamation of ownership breeds heartbreak, and though I have managed to remain unscarred through so many years I find myself in a place of, however pesky, priorities.</span></span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">Blood over blood, the decision of what is right and what is desirable in all of the most tempting definitions. My hands, while stained, have always worked wonders on what is not truly personal to me. Business aside, I have found myself an agent of my own word, my ambition always being the forefront of my mind as I sit atop both my literal and introspective throne, but there is perhaps more to conceive, such as, what I must do to keep it so.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">There is a question that arises when one of my own find themselves… dissatisfied. It is something I cannot ignore, cannot allow to fester and metastasize. I am a victim of my own allegiance, my own thirst, and familiar are the greek gods, the price to pay for such covet. As to continue to grow, you must devour, consume, relish to the brink of gluttony, and then savor what you have reaped.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Marcus has begun to arise as an issue, a problem, as he is no longer content in the Volturi, his allegiance shifting to matters of, how to say,</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">the heart</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">. My own sister, Didyme, while a champion of adoration in her own regards, has participated greatly in the retaliation, the desire of separation from my ranks in favor of those related to, not said without concern of repetition,</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">the heart</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">. A union provided with my blessing, a smile and eyes warmed with false enlightenment, the ever-modest expression of someone who values relation over rule, open arms to clasped hands, thoughts that began to brew the most satisfying yet unholy. I grew yet another decision to mull over, thoughts to occupy me throughout my eternity.</span></span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">I do not turn to Caius, while another leader in title, I already know the words to pass his lips and while I find a level of respect in his regards, he has the most abrasive and bloodthirsty of all solutions among the rulers. He would desire her head, and while it is the same conclusion I myself find best suited to my needs, I know that from his mouth it will make me the most unhappy, perhaps angry. If I am going to lend a hand in the murder of my sister, it is something I must do myself, without help drawn either in line of morals or physical assault. For perhaps the first time in my increasingly long life, it is entirely personal to me. If she is to die, it must be by my hand, but I cannot do so impulsively, not without proper preparation.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">However, I fear that even in death, my sister’s hold on Marcus will not loosen, the discontentedness forever implemented in his bones. Something I find they fail to understand is that both of them, Marcus and Didyme respectively, belong to me. They owe me something that it seems they are anxious to escape, not only in a sense of livelihood but in life itself; I have not failed to provide them something great, something which they desire to abandon. For the sake of both an iron fist and personal desire, I feel the ache in my veins, not from grief but necessity.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">I have given her the blessing of the air she continues to breathe despite no longer needing to, with my blood, and later venom coursing in her veins, and through just as much hardship, I can take it back into my own hands.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-weight: 400; font-size: 10pt;">Will I not suffer remorse? Even as a breathing piece of the heartless monsters I have created, I am not free of guilt, from feeling no matter the depth at which it is hidden in deceit, but what must be done is greater than just myself, but instead the entire coven I sought to create.</span></p>