The Night Eternal

[ArtintheBlood]

The canvas was stained in crimson, the spill of color brushed through to blemish the pure reign of stretched cream. A design of the spoiled temper and ravenous nature of chaos was the evidence left behind on such what was once untainted. Was it a scar, an imperfection that was revealed to be taken into consideration or something more achingly obvious. A story. A history. A lifetime of path marks.



An Artist could be known to pour their heart, their soul, and sometimes even their very life blood into their work. Art and blood. It fit so well the very notion for were not paintings and sculptures the very revelation and product of emotions left bleeding before the eyes of all?



A step back could offer a more landscape born observation of the canvas, the finished product a painting still dripping wet. The Artist herself refrained from the desire to touch the slick temptation that was spilled paint pooling from the edges of the canvas. How she yearned to touch the painting if only to feel once more all that had been lost.



The brush was dismissed to the pot of tainted, paint smeared water, a brush forgotten until the time she would take it with the pot to purify once more the tools of her trade. It seemed strange to her even now to still use paint as her voice, to use a canvas as a weapon, but this was all she had.



Paintings and memories.



Cheryth knew well it was not the emotional rawness of the painting that drew the longing to touch but the revelation of those portrayed. A man who?s face seemed now a shadow, a blur of memories and the Artist herself. The Artist and the one who made her all that she was, all she had become.



The centuries had passed so easily, like pages easily ripped away and tossed aside from a sketch pad, that Cheryth had assumed that his face should have been a shadow, a blur, a haze within her memory.



Yet she possessed the memory of an Artist and he had a face she could never forget. No matter how hard she tried, the memory of a man haunted her. The memory of her Maker.



Hands stained red with oil paint lifted, flawless porcelain beauty of an ever exquisitely living corpse stained with a totem mark of all that she was. Cheryth perhaps would leave herself branded as if she was meant even now to be caught red handed.



Those elegant hands sculpted with the grace of antiquity?s passion rose not tonight in prayer but instead in freedom. The caged possession of her hair left freed to spill all the natural glory of blood and fire never contained. She changed silently from the accessories of the Artist to the desirable material of the Huntress.



The messy richness of lush scarlet waves were brushed and pinned if only for Cheryth?s eyes to be veiled by the jeweled latticework of the hat worn. The Artist was a superstitious source and it was never well in her opinion to offer a true vision within the blue fire windows of her own soul.



A polite cough into her lace gloved palm as she stepped outside brought a worrisome frown. No matter the time that had passed she found herself still thinking upon the once past and the dangerous promise of the end of life.



How silly it was to think of that now as she entered the shadows. No longer was she left to worry over the risks of fragility of life?



After all, he had made certain of that, hadn?t he?



Because of him like every other night before this one and every night to follow, Cheryth would always be one left to enter the night eternal.

[LifeInDarkness]

Time passes.

Sev knew this well, and he had seen many things come and go. The triumph of men, how easily they were impressed with themselves. The wars, even he watched with interest at times. The way they tore at one another with bombs, with chemical, but how even their mighty warriors would cry as babes when he would show up to take them to the gates of hell.

There were women, there had always been women. They came into his life, after his wife and child were taken from him, after he accepted what he had been made into. He had tried to hold another, after losing his wife... swearing that he would not turn her into what he had become. Even after explaining to her what he was, she chose to stay, to live her life, in love with a man who would never give her a child, a man that would not be able to see her unless the rooms of their home were completely dark, a man that would watch her go to the gates of death with a smile on her lips, grateful of the life she lived with what many considered a monster. With the death of his second wife, he vowed never to watch another waste away while he remained eternal.

[ArtintheBlood]

The club reminded her of better times. Nights when she was not plagued with the reminders of how much things had changed, and how much other things remained the same. Cheryth could not escape her past, she had learned that well enough. The years that had passed continued to remind her that no matter where the thread of her life had become knotted or unraveled she had remained alone.

Year after year. From time to time she had taken on a pomme du sang but eventually Cheryth had tired of even those apples, no matter how sweet... or bitter... they tasted.

It was not the same.

The darkness of the club reminded her of velvet, the sleek, pristine individuals gathered within made her think of those long forgotten. These were not the same gatherings as those of her past. The women before were far more polite but just as polished. They were reserved but just as ravenous for affection.

Cheryth could understand the ravenous cravings but she craved for something far more lasting then affection. Warriors and Makers walked away but their blood... well that... would linger to preserve her.

She didn't need their presence, the memory of the sweet metallic taste of their blood was enough. It was always enough.

At least that was what she tricked herself into believing.

When she approached the bar she greeted the tender with a gentile bow of head. The tender knew her well enough if not by name then at least by her drink. Words these days were no longer needed. Cheryth didn't even need to begin a countdown before the first lunge of a hunter's attack came for her. It was fortunate for Cheryth that her presumed attacker sought not for her throat but instead something below the neck.

To think... she hadn't even had time to remove her coat.

Cheryth easily loosened the binds of her jacket leaving the material to pool to her chair and leaving the paleness of her arms exposed to the dim lighting. She remembered well enough her manners. She had been trained so well in the art of conversation in the venue of socialites.

Small talk was made even as she masked her disgust for her bar companion. Dog. The scent permeated her senses making the Artist fend off the utmost desire to wrinkle her nose. She was doing so well until the nameless man continued his bragging rights and claimed himself a lone wolf.

"Lone wolf you say?"

Cheryth could sense the man's eagerness, even a dog exuded pheromones after all. She could tell how easily pleased he was at her seeming sudden interest in him. It had to be his good fortune. She would leave him to believe this as he continued his over zealous explanation about his nature as a lone wolf.

"That is... charming and quite brave of you, considering the nature of a wolf is to exist with a pack. The nature of a wolf from what I had the impression is to stay loyal to those of his pack. To consider yourself as a lone wolf would leave one to assume you have abandoned these very theories. How very... brave... of you."

Her voice was a hushed lyric even as one perfectly sculpted brow arched in question. She watched him with a calm fascination as it was so easy to see him processing her exquisite insult. Of course he would not realize it for what it was, just as he had no realization of her true nature. Fool.

He recovered so quickly running away with his words and lingering on the fact she had claimed him brave. Typical. Eventually even Cheryth would tire of the deceit in the company of this fool.

"I believe it is time that we get something clear between us if we are to continue this ridiculous conversation. I have no interest in one that would name himself as a lone wolf. When I think of a lone wolf I do not think of true wolves. What instead comes to mind is mongrels and mutts. Weak beaten dogs that at the first morsel of affection and attention will slobber all over those who lavish such upon them."

A sigh was exhaled as the azure flame of her eyes blazed intently as she looked the man directly in the eyes.

"I apologize for the use of such a harsh tongue but I care nothing for lone wolves for they are nothing more then slobbering, weak dogs. You are nothing more then a weak dog and your mere presence disgusts me. I cannot offer any small morsel of what you seek for your presence alone repels me. Now if you will excuse me, good dog, I must be on my way."

He was dismissed without a thought as she murmured a quiet offering of thanks to the tender and paid her dues for the evening. She retreated instead to the solace of an abandoned booth cloaked in the club's shadows as she closed her eyes and pressed her paint stained fingers to her temples.

Manners.

She always had kept her manners. At least was that one thing he had taught her that she would always hold on to.

Now it was only a matter of time before the dog showed his bark was stronger then his bite.

Once more Cheryth began the silent countdown in her mind as her fingers began the delicate art of ripping each and every sugar packet to shreds.

[LifeInDarkness]

The days flowed into months. Months into years. Years into decades. All the while, Sev remained. He was used to being the center of attention when at a party. A new man of wealth and taste he quickly became the object of many a woman’s desire, married or not. He made the circles, Governor’s parties, Presidential inaugurations, even having a hand in swaying some elections in favor of those that he’d grown fond of as Gentlemen. But, when the glitz and glamor died of the high life, he always found himself back to his roots in the lower sides of towns and cities.

The darker, dirtier places were full of people no one would miss. Abusive husbands, drunkards, and women of...looser morals. People that he’d grown up around in the small township of his birth in Germany. Sometimes his curse allowed him to be a hero, a husband would never touch his wife again and she would be better for it. A body if found would be so decayed, identification would be impossible in that day and age. Across town, a new widow would wake up to a leather purse full of coin, with a note reading “Never again, ~S”

He started in Boston 1773, witnessing the destruction of the tea. Then in 1775, the Americans fought for their war of Independence. Sev watched as war ravaged the colonies, and found disgust that even amidst wars, there were still parties of the rich, while the poor fought their wars, and their families fought starvation.

From Boston he moved down the seaboard to settle into New York, and found the night life more to his liking. The Gas-Light streets provided dark and deep shadows in the alley ways of tall buildings, and the newspapers were full of the missing of all sorts. It was in those shadows, Sev spent most of his time in the Americas. A beautiful home was acquired, and there he stayed until people began to question some of the missing that he had no hand in, and why he would turn down their invitations until long after sun down. He stayed nearly too long as the home he had stayed in, and had shared with many different women from all walks of life caught fire, with him inside. A suspicious blaze he barely walked away from, toward the next great adventure.

[ArtintheBlood]

~18th Century London~

The whispers of the women from the town crept and curled around her as she passed by the gathering. It seemed evident that despite all of her attempts, the fact that Cheryth lived alone without a male companion had finally got out. England did not smile too fondly upon the notion of a woman of good breeding to be left in such circumstances and the townspeople were ever so willing to abide by the nature and laws of England.



Cheryth ruled it down to sheer jealousy of the other women in the town. They were jealous that she had lived and survived this long on her own without the assistance or guidance of a man. They were jealous of her unruly, outspoken nature. A willful soul they called her. No matter the reason of their jealousy Cheryth knew the beginning of their blame and the absolute root cause of such loathing came from him. His arrival had ruined everything.



Her pale blue eyes narrowed as one blood red brow arched in challenge to the women that stared at her in shocked disapproval. Was it the paint smeared upon her hands and caked beneath her fingernails or the unbound loosened plaits of her red hair left to the wind that gave her such glances? Cheryth never knew, she only understood that for some reason the women of the town had turned against her since the day the new gentleman had come into their town. She had never even spared him a passing glance or even a gracious word and yet the women acted as if she was a witch cursing them all.



She knew he was attractive and well in his finances. Such was obvious for if such was not the case the women of the town would not have gossiped so over him. How in vain they seemed to strive for his attention in hopes for perhaps a marriage proposal or at the very least a kind word.



The Artist had no interest in marriage proposals. In fact she wished nothing more than to remain in the living circumstance and arrangement that she had been in since her father passed away. Very much alone.



Yet that was not the fate for her now was it. He had made certain of that. In one passing on the street upon another raining day on the outskirts of London he had ruined her life and turned the town against her. A mere touch of her hand, a turning of her palm to expose the paint stains and the azure blue vein that pulsed beneath.



A touch had changed everything.



The revelation and realization of such had her eyes snapping to meet his own before she managed to rip her hand away from his own to find its freedom again. Horrified and stunned she had taken off running down the streets ignoring her parchments and the painting supplies so recently purchased.



She ignored the fact that the telltale beating of her heart proved she was no better and no different from the other towns women. The desires and wishes of the women in the town resonated within the dark hidden places of her own spirit. She wished the same. Damn him but she wished the same.



It was the day that she found her painting supplies and other packages gathered at her door step that the women voiced their decision. Cheryth should no longer be left to her own devices. It was unreasonable for a woman of her … gifts… to be left alone.



She was left to be dutifully delivered to the doorstep of not the man she could not rid her thoughts of, but instead to the doorstep of Edmund Winters. A strict Elder of the town and also a widow with two unruly children that were too self-righteous and spoiled to be educated in any mere school.



Cheryth was to be their governess, imprisoned in a fortress she was meant to claim now as her home under the watchful gaze of Mr. Winters who’s gaze upon her was always far from that of a gentleman. The women of the town had got exactly as they wished… Cheryth had been sent to hell.

[ArtintheBlood]

The darkened confines of the booth she occupied no longer provided her with the solace she sought leaving her with no other choice than to entire the faint light in the nightclub. It was a vain attempt Cheryth knew to try and run away from her own thoughts and memories, but still she tried.



As she entered the ladies room her sapphire eyes gave a passing once over of the girls gathered there. One look gave her enough information to acknowledge no matter how much time had passed some things never changed. The women would still judge her and give their sniffs of disdain and dismissal. It was the typical look a group of women or even a woman alone would give to another woman that seemed ignorant of her beauty.



Cheryth chose to ignore their looks, grateful at least this was an era where a woman could be independent and free without the possessive ownership or guidance of a man to give her a name or a place in the world. The art business was thriving and the galleries were devouring her pieces, so it would seem.



For a moment she found herself shutting her eyes to temporarily blind herself to her own reflection as her fingers curled around the porcelain siding of the sink. A deep breath was drawn in as she shook her head in dismissal of what she was now. Would he consider his creation a priceless Masterpiece now?



She had been a natural beauty in life, she realized that now. As for now…. Now… oh now… she was Art perfected. The azure fire of her eyes opened to focus intently upon her reflection and she found her reflection smiling bitterly at her. The face staring back at her had the flawless sculpting and hue that so many women of her time had strived for. Even though it had been the consumption that brought the moon soft paleness of her features to exist, women were literally dying to have it. Those that hadn’t died or been taken by the disease had mimed that they were infected, powdering their faces into a blissful white paleness.



No matter how they tried though none could match Cheryth’s natural complexion. The disease had made that certain and He had assured the porcelain flawlessness of her complexion would be remain for all eternity. Masterpiece.



A Masterpiece.



The simple dull auburn of hair had been bathed in the life blood of the immortal to become the shades of blood, of fire, of rubies and garnets and other priceless bloody jewels. A brilliant spark of blue eyes had become azure flames ignited in unholy existence ever set in the completion of that moon pale porcelain of her lovely features.



Cheryth loathed and was transfixed by the vision set before her. She had enough control and the proper aging in her mannerisms and etiquette to not scream out the emotions threatening to bubble over and spill from her lips but the rage , the confusion, the anguish, and yes even the despairing loneliness could not be ignored.



She waited until she was absolutely certain she was alone before her fist raised to shatter her reflection into a thousand shining silver stars and blades painted in the glistening shade of her own unbreakable eternity.



Shaking and startled she gasped at the display of shattered glass gathered around her feet, suddenly so shaky and weak she began to shudder. Cheryth couldn’t tell what was a stronger sensation she felt in that moment… her fierce craving to feed or the heavy weight of her shame for feeling such despair.



The Artist was ignorant of the blood that streaked from her eyes to fall in streams of tears down her face as she clutched at her bleeding fingers. She was too weak and too hungry now even to heal. What a fool she had been to hold off for so long from feeding.



The sound of the door opening in the ladies room had the blaze of her azure eyes burning to life as she controlled the utmost desire to show her teeth. No one should ever see her in this state, no one…