[align=justify:6de9e7b35e]A faint whisper from the dark; was that all it was? Simplistic in melody from the hapless tongue of frosts, maybe in origin it was more the change of tides in the flow of waking. For years beneath the ruins of her family crest, she had slumbered. Shrouded in the garb of satin and gossamer like some treasured secret meaning to remain buried by time {forgotten} with no real purpose of existence. The past was nothing more than a guild of disappointment, one that given reason she had put behind her and struggled to find another more sacred to the blackness of her heart. Here she discovered the failure for stigma which had been branded on stone by the wretched charlatan that was Kalicity Darkbane. A boil on the name which she once considered unholy, now a farce. It wasnât that she who thought of herself as having failed, instead all those around her whom had not remained true to their word and oaths. Many spoke with venomed tongued, hiding their fangs yet bearing their infantile poisons every so uninventively.
There was no reason for all these years of torpor, she was no weak vampire nor needed to reserve her energies for future battles. It was more of being tired of the same lies and the same faces behind the shadows, that her one true child was dead and that she had begged for her life to the feeble Kalicity, amusing. Amusing enough that it warmed her blood on cold, boring nights. Did they Kalicity think herself so gifted in manipulation that her eyes could not see behind the masks? Then again, time and time again, she permitted those ghosts to intrude on her existence like a plague. And that was what they were a plague on the essence of her epitome. And ghosts for to her Kalicity was long dead to the maggots swarming from violated eye-sockets which the flies bred from. Well no more would she be this infestation. Sometimes in ones subsistence, to renew the vitality of purpose, one has to take a few steps back to change the path they are on. It was this stain, this blight that she would be liberated from. All it took was simply to turn her back and never regret such choices. And why not? She had been accused of it before, falsely. Why not hammer the final nail in the coffin.
From the ephemeral plethoric shroud of darkness she stirred. Poignant in motion, as if a painting had come to life. Scenes slowly blending from mottled brushed colors to dull drapery and the pretense of elegance, deluding and illusionary. Exhibiting the true colors that had lingered beneath the surface where decoration no longer existed, just only which was true. Essence. There was no requirement for all the insincere glory achieved through blood and sweat, not necessarily her own, but granted by her hand. Surely that had to count for something? Unlike the others of that blighted clan, her achievements had been that of her own merit. Their names were no more than a joke, and most conceited parodies were easily forgotten. Each in turn would be forgotten, but never forgiven. To her they were erased from extistence.
Reborn in the flesh as she had been created. A single drop of venomed elixirs from the blood of death and the essences of souls stolen would make all the difference; a bottle had been obtained during her scholars of the Thanatonian Monks. Used for many various concoctions regarding the memory, it made sense to completely make them all vanish. Since a mother is the goddess of creation, so to could a mother become that of death/ uncreation. There was nothing left that even resembled her true self, it had been morphed and warped into something not even those once closest could recognize. There was nothing worse than looking at your reflection in the mirror and no longer recognizing the face which stared back at you. Mocking you with empty eyes. Ballathor had been right, and in her own lies she had betrayed the only mother she had ever known. Pandora. She was no longer, all that she was left with were their shadows still laughing from the darkness. She was the fool. And what a shame her woken somnolent revelation was the final realization. It had come too late and now she was truly alone except for the ghost that tormented her awareness.
Deft fingers twisting the stopper of the small vial. It was like they were dancing around the frame of the black glass bottle, as if caressing the neck of a fragile lover. The liquid could not be spilled on unholy ground, the spores had to blossom before they could burst and unleash their deadly ingredients. Only a tiny drop should be spilled, no more and no less. All the centuries of learning and knowledge couldnât be lost, not because of the ungratefulness of those fools who thought themselves as formidable. It was the very essence of Darkbane given to them that she wanted gone, the privledge granted by Pandora. The amulets awarded would simply turn to dust. Whatever Darkbane blood that coursed through their veins would be no longer. Whatever tattoo's were given in tribute would fade to nothing and the mark of their shame, from her flesh would be removed. The taint of their rotten flesh gone from her caress and lips.
Atra had forgotten what it was like to feel the infantile sunlight upon her skin. She welcomed the faint chill of night as it was gradually warmed by golden tridents bringing forth a new day. Rebirth and renewal. Permitting herself the briefest of pleasures. A moment of silence to enjoy these simple privileges that comes with living and dying {in a metamorphic definition} the chrysalis of change and transformation. Bringing herself back to a sense of reality, no longer dreaming of the nightmares that screamed in defiance within the back of her mind. Finally she would be free. Slowly the vial was raised to grant one single globule to the terra firma beneath her feet. It was then that she heard a murmur from the darkness of her past just as the minuscule drop of the potion fell upon the tip of a radiant crimson poppy. It was then that she decided to taste some for herself... Finally she would be free. Slowly the vial was raised to plump rubicund apertures. It was then that she heard a murmur from the darkness of her past just as the minuscule drop of the potion fell upon the tip of tongue.
There was no turning back now. Atra had not recognized the source of this husky, chthonic voice or even if it was intended for her. There was a strong possibility she never would know for the potion worked quite efficiently, immediately just as any notable contaminant would. Vision became blurry, eyes widening to try and decipher her whereabouts just as the feeling of nausea washed over her like a surging tide. Faltering in step, head shaking as if to chase away the feeling of floating on tempest inflicted waters. With this sensation came the violent pounding in her head, slamming against consciousness before everything turned to blackness.
Her body falling limp to the ground. The fall protected by the multitudes of wild perfumed lilies blanketing the isolated hillside⦠flowery heads bidding by the wind stroking along the landscape of valley. Softly they wept.[/align:6de9e7b35e]
[align=center]Nothing was more precious than a broken angel.[/align]
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