O.D. 1.6.2002 [12:36 p.m.]

(A very brief snippet of a scene between my first and best Lasombra, and Liz's sicktwistedincestuous Tzimisce Koldun. Quite a change from her later primproper Koldun...

Gah, lookit me. Ellipse city.)

[Victor DiSperanza]

Wed 20:49 EST As though drawn by its own devastating desire (for what could resist a woman as Innocence, yes?), his hand slips along thigh, hip...dips into warm...leather...rests upon the small of back. Stills upon her cold, cold skin.

Except the shadows are not still. And desire becomes violence...or perhaps mingles with it into some twisted amalgam born from the pits of hell...as a pool of blackness as dull as death, as slow-crawling as honey, as cold as old blood spreads from the darkness beneath his fingers. And spreads. And separates into seven...eight...tendrils, the sleek legs of some mutant spider, curling about her ribcage, over her breasts, to wrap caressingly about her throat. To wrap deadly tight about her throat. Suffocation, too, is felt bone-deep, soul-deep, blood-deep.

He digs nails into the too-perfect flesh of her back, and oozing blood accentuates the thrumming, vibrating ooze of shadow... "You." Tighter, do the tendrils squeeze, until her ribs creak in protest, until the crawling supply of blood to her head threatens to cease... "Never." ...ceases... "Change."

He lifts his hand, peels hers from his shoulders, and leaves her to stand or swoon as she might, half conscious. He turns and disappears back into the darkness within the silver, and the car is still. And the shadows...are still.

[Innocence]

Wed 21:05 EST "...eu..." She sways into the embrace - the terrible, constricting embrace - of the crawling shadows. She leans, curving bright the fine-boned form, seeking toward them, as they slip away and (...no...) still. "...sempre..." She wings, some terrible, fine-arching predator, aloft on a wave of black, tearing sensation. She hungers - with all the endless infinite burn of the deadly chill of the coldest breast, coldest beast - and so she sinks, she crawls, she shivers over the author of this... beautiful violence, in endless, sinking, swooning appreciation. "...mudo..." And it is true. For she does, always, change.

The door snicks closed behind her. The smoke-silvered cage of metal and power waits for a single moment, and pulls off, into the bleeding, breathing, sinking night.