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Blood of A Toreador

by: LadyChrys A Legacy Article from Sanguinus Curae

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The Night air was Chilly. Azarel shivered, not because she was cold, but because the air held something in it tonight. Chill.

She had long sense lost the feeling for Seasonal cold or Change.

She leaned against the back of the warehouse. Standing in the partial shadows, she watched the Kids in the Parking Lot across the street, and she smiled. Oh, such sweet innocent youths - even the ones who looked for the most danger, and was strung out high, or drunk, slumped over behind the front wheel of his beat-up pick up truck.

She always watched these kids, their youth mocking her, speaking to her in rhymes in her head. She looked up the facing of the worn building, it's paint and siding falling off, rain still dripping from the eves, she stared up at the roof, listening with her nocturnal hearing. She pulled the trenchcoat she wore closer to her, the sword ever ready at her hip in case some cutthroat thought he could take her, or some fool neonate thought She was prey. She thought to herself, 'do they ever learn to tell the difference?'

A grim line appeared on her ruby lips. She was a Knockout, but in a creepy sort of way. She was no miss sunshine, and she tried to fit in with the punks, freaks and goths out here, the only thing that stood out was her Touch, and her eyes. People had told her, especially guys that both made them feel like they had just looked in and touched Death.

Born of Strange Irish blood, her mother always said the fae was in her. Her mother had been a hedge witch, in rural Ireland way back in the 1500's. It wasn't the witch hunter's either that had killed her mother, It Had been Zealot, her Sire.

She paced in the fog that was now rising off the humid lake just a street beyond her. She liked the fog and how it made her feel inside. She had always liked fog, even though they had ridden away with her into it back in those dreary days of Ireland.

She walked up the street to the club, the only Kindred club in the city, at least the only one she had ever heard about and been in, The Black Rose.

True it was a Toreador dive, but allot of good ones where here. The Singers and the Rock Stars. The Painters and Sculptors. The Models.

Azarel skittered in among them, stepping into the shadows in her usual place. She did not like the light, or the limelight of being in it. The shadows and cool darkness were her home.

She looked left and right, leaning back against the cool wall, feeling the cement of the wall scrape against the material of her trenchcoat.

'Why Do I always Come here?' , She thought to herself. 'What have I to gain?'

She frowned, she never understood it yet herself. The music, the wine, and the elegance and all the pain of society not to mention its angst called to her, like a scream that can pierce dimensional walls. If it was night and she was not out there in some way 'touching it' then she felt, depressed, lonely.

There was never a night she was not walking one of those streets, pacing in the shadows, feeling chill and some wasted emotion in the air. This got old, and it got tiring, yet every night it calls to her and pulls her to it, like a moth to a flame, like a lover. Like a Chain.

Right now, she felt desperate and alone, she didn't even want to feed, and she felt broken, she felt weak, she felt drained.

Are you also the slave of the Blood of A Toreador?

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