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[Lady Avella]

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Friday Sept 23 (sunset)

Word reached me late in the week that the Countess Bretane of Ashencrosse is sequestered in the Lycaeum of Moonglow.
I wonder. What diagnosis will the scholars find for her when their definitions are so limited?
How will the monks bring her spiritual redemption when they themselves fall victim to worldly pleasures?

They fail to understand that she is beyond worldly concerns.
Beyond the reach of any monk or scholar who would pry open their books and search their indexes for explanations as to why … why one would act with such pure irrationality.

As the moon rises over my estate I too rise from my rest and book passage on the first ship leaving Britain.
As I wait to board, I pen a letter to this Father Lawrence requesting an audience with the Countess.
Not that I need his permission, least of all his blessing. But in the name of prudence and polite discretion, I ask.

Dearest Countess.
When next you see the moon arc through the window of your ivory prison, look down to the courtyard and see one who understands
One who has the power to grant you
absolution.

[Lady Avella]

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October 19th (six hours after sunset)


Rage.

Rage of the blood
Failure of the will.
HIS voice rings in these halls once more.
A desert of time has rolled under my feet
While the blood of fallen angels’ pulses through my veins.

Mark me.
Mark me as fallen too.
Mark me as one disloyal.
As one removed from my own volition.

The shadows are not deep enough.
No cave dark enough.
No night cold enough to change
What cannot be changed.

Nine times nine I weep.
Nine times nine I cut my flesh.
Nine times nine I find my soul has fled.

The moon stands as silent witness to the error of my blood.

Cold moon!
Will you show me the way?
Will you draw from me what is left of my emotion?
Draw from me the last vestige of my humanity?

Sour is the blood this night.
No mortal or undead is safe this night.
None best walk the earth this night for I hunt again
Seeking to bury my rage deeper still.

[Lady Avella]

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November 4th (sunrise)


I move through the world with the knowledge that Life is Death and only in Death do we find true Life.

Rise from the Crypt my lover.
Rise from the wound that stabs this heart and, if this heart could beat, tear it from my chest and cast it down among the Dammed to lie forever in misery and loss.
For I am a wanton woman and I have no desire but one;
To rule those who would cast me out and to bring them to their knees.

I will drain their blood, touch their faces with my gentle fingers and call them sister, brother, child.
I will walk naked in my rage and stand before thee as slave.
Slave to your voice,
Your touch,
Your endless days.

Mark me.
Mark me here upon my chest and call me daughter, lover, wife.
Feel these hands upon you.
My breath sours with the blood of citizens.
Thou art tepid in thy love, yet firm in your desire.
Spill me out like a broken vial.
Open me to the possibility of redemption then leave me wanting.

Foul wings of my brothers.
Wicked smiles of my sisters.
Rectus grins of my children.
How you dance upon your strings.
How you wail at my passing yet weep for none.
My tears of blood fall unheeded upon this page only to dry like the crust that forms around my empty heart.

Bend me.
Open me.
Send me back to the grave

… forever.

[Lady Avella]

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November 5th (four hours before dawn)

Voices echo through the Crypt while the marble statues of the Elders and Ancient Ones watch in frigid silence. A flash of firelight along the blade as the dagger is raised. A pause at the top and then the plunge. Like a swimmer into a pool of dark water the blade strikes deep, splitting flesh, muscle and bone. Slicing open the artery. A gasp of shock and burning pain as the eyes widen, not in surprise or condemnation, but in resolved acceptance.

Marcus, Lord of this House stands over my kneeling body. He removes the dagger and flings it across the room where it clatters against the stone. His ice blue eyes watch without compassion as blood explodes from the wound in my neck. Like a stream of dark velvet it flows across my shoulder, matting my hair and seeping into my gown. He holds my hair tight in his fist, keeping my head high and back as he watches me bleed. A moment later he releases me. My dark eyes gleam in a kind of wild communion as I slump to the floor where the blood of angel’s expands in an ever widening pool.

“Destroy me,” I had begged. “For I can no longer bear my betrayal of your love, your kindness, your rule.”

I lay upon the cold stone floor awaiting the final gasp.
He will remove my head and burn the remains and I will be free, redeemed of my sins.
I spoke the truth to him, detailed my betrayal and in his rage he struck.
So fitting in so many ways.

He stands over me now, watching as the blood of my sin stains this holy place. The flames of braziers send shadows dancing across the ceiling. They spring from alcoves to spin and tumble across the floor like jesters only to vanish against the outer walls.

In moments it will all be over.

Mother? Father?
How long has it been?
How long since that dark night in Britain when His eyes first held me in sway?
An eternity of violence.
An ocean of blood.
The unforgiving rage of my passion.

Marcus watches unflinching as I lift my hand toward him like a drowning person toward the living shore. His eyes soften; become once more the dark adjuring wells into which I plunged my soul so long ago. He kneels, this Lord of the Kindred, and lifts my head gently in his arm. A gash he cuts in his own and lets his blood seep onto my lips. His eyes flash. His voice a whispered growl.

“I claim thee once more and take thee back from He who has betrayed me. He who had poisoned your blood and turned you against me. He who attempted to turn others of our House as he turned you. Hear me child; thou art kindred to this House and shall remain so forever. Rise now and take your rightful place among the Nobles, but do not forget the nature of my wrath for I shall wield it freely against all who stand against me.”

His blood redeems me.
His eyes reclaim me.
His voice commands me.

I stand alone in the silence of the Crypt weeping bitter tears of blood.

[Lady Avella]

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November 23


I watch him sleep
This minor Lord of Trinsic
How his hair
Like sunlit wheat
Lays quiet on his brow

I brush a lock
Gentle from his eyes
He stirs
But does not wake

Outside
The moon above
Quivers in her journey
While all the stars
Pay homage
To her light

I rest my head
Upon his chest
Feel the rise
And the fall of it
The rush of air
Within his lungs
The soft murmur
Of his dreams

The heavy rhythm
Of his heart

Does he know?
Does he give himself so freely?
Do I dare wish
For such a thing?

He stirs
I lift my head
He turns
Still asleep

He knows
He must
This Paladin of Virtue
Who gives himself so freely

He knows
He must

I watch him sleep
Quiet in his dreams
My hand
Gentle on his face

I will not harm you
My minor Lord of Trinsic
Nor drag you down
Into this pit
That is my soul

I will keep you safe
My minor Lord of Trinsic
Hold you close
A relic
Of another life

At dawn
I rise to go
Look back
Upon his sleeping face
And mourn the fact
We had not met before

[Lady Avella]

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December 5th.


A chill breeze touches the shores of Nujel’m.
Winter in the North Countries and the melancholy trappings of celebration.
An eternity of winter blows though these bones as I struggle to find the means to understand.
Darkness and the anemic light of the moon balance the core belief that I was born into this life,
taken from my human existence and transformed into this monster, this Dark Maiden; for a reason.
Was it to teach?
To remind the mortals of their inevitable mortality?
Was it to bring a sense of foreboding and terror into their homes?
Have I become a creature so vile that it must hide from the sight of all: even my own Sire?
I kill without remorse, without reason save for the taste of blood.
But even that has changed, has become more … refined.

From this tower window, I watch the night-birds wheel above the docks.
How far by ship to Britain?
To Magincia?
To Moonglow?
How far, I wonder, to His side.
Does He stand now, at this moment, atop the battlements looking up at this same moon?
Does He ever wonder why?
Does distance even matter?

The pen leaves scratch marks on the page.
Words that have not yet committed themselves to the text.
Their meaning lost.
Their substance misleading.
I pause when the talon in my belly closes tight.
Flexes its dark need.
Instinct is a powerful aphrodisiac and the scent of blood drives me to extremes.
The Beast is my companion, my adviser, my confidant.
How far, I wonder … to the shores of Trinsic.

[Lady Avella]

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December 28th

Two weeks gone.
Two weeks of fitful solitude.
Two weeks of sinful self-reflection.

The shifting sands of Nujel'm do not comfort me nor do the waves that beat against the shore.

The sun glares down upon this land with a vengeance unimagined
While the cold, icy moon spills her indifference over all.

I am called out. My body not my own.
The farmer's fields are strewn with dead and dying cattle
His children wail, for the stories they have heard
Now stand before them under a cold impassioned moon.
The nightmare of their lives made real.

I let the frenzy wash over me.
Sooth my skin like the hands of a faithful lover.
I bathe in the blood of innocence
And writhe in the terror of their screams.



Nothing shall quench my thirst.
Nothing shall bring me pause.
I yearn eternally for that which I cannot have.
So close it comes at times I need but touch it to make it mine.
This fire in my belly and the blood from these dark eyes
Speak of a love unrequited.

His silver spurs against my throat
are the only scars I crave.

[Lady Avella]

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Fini


The blade was not forged of steel
Not of silver
Not of gold

They followed me
One hundred strong
Into the mountains
Into the storm

They held me fast
After thirty dead
And a streak of blood
A mile long

They dragged me down
Into the caves
Into the caverns
Into the dark

They held me fast
And drove through my heart
A blade of Ash
A wooden spike

Deep within the earth
They dragged me down
No secrets now
No hidden vice

Into the darkness
The bloodless lust
Into the Sleep
Into the Void

How long I wonder
How long before
Some hapless wanderer
Seeking the richest ore

Or treasure fair
Finds instead
The bloody trail
Of his own mistake

Above me now
A thousand feet
Of rock and stone
And under it all

I lie sleeping
Waiting
Planning …