Post by Violet Abendroth on Sept 27, 2009 22:09:02 GMT -5
Brisk fall breezes nipped the air with comfortable chills, washing orange colored leaves from the pavement of the city and into the cool, autumnal air. The other side grew weaker, as Halloween grew closer. She could feel it, with the colorful decay of foliage and pleasing crunch of dead leaves. Any witch could. The blood moved differently, and each breath through the nostrils brought a sweet, memorable aroma that quivered the spine.
Clouds bloomed overhead in the sky, and Violet foresaw rain, another pleasantry. Light pitter patters and the odor of wet cement. She clutched her cropped, silk and cashmere black cardigan close around her shoulders, while smoke drifted soothingly through her nostrils with a light exhale. The cup of milk laden coffee steamed with delightful wisps, and she brought the ivory colored porcelain to her pout, cherry moistened lips. Red. Deep red. No other color did the lips true justice. Violet called it Harlot red, and there was rarely a time she didn't smudge it against the softness of her lips.
She adjusted in her patio seat beneath a spanned umbrella, the steel boning of her black, over-bust corset a minor discomfort as it nipped her waist down to 21" and pressed firmly against her full, ripened decollete. Gilded pigtails streamed down her back, while feathery bangs split down before her heart-shaped face. A tight black skirt slid to her mid-thigh, with the peaking lace tops of her thigh highs proudly displaying for the world to see, and right in the contour of the muscle, a tattoo of a black siamese rested, carefully carved into her leg.
She re-crossed them and flagged down the waiter. And, although he was by all means not really French, she still affectionately called him 'garçon.'
"Garçon!" She snapped her manicured, red fingertips, and he gave a shit eating grin as he approached her, but she never looked up from the menu. "...Creme brulee, s'il vous plait."
She giggled over the asinine rhyme, and he spitefully responded in his worst possible French accent "Oui, mamselle." as he snatched the menu from her claws. And as far as she was concerned, he left.
She ashed the tip of her cigarette in the crystal ashtray resting on the smooth, red tablecloth, and she scribbled something in the tattered, duct tape coated notebook before her with a classic, black fountain pen. She brought the tip of the pen to her lips, sampling the inky taste that blackened her tongue temporarily, and her brilliant green gaze caught the street.
Human. Human. Human. She sensed in the bustling crowd. Where were the witches? By December, she'd be aging again, although she couldn't complain. Her last victim made her look no older than her late teens, maybe early twenties. It was suitable for now, but a witch in the near future... she flipped a tarot card on the table, and the high priestess gave her mild hope.
Clouds bloomed overhead in the sky, and Violet foresaw rain, another pleasantry. Light pitter patters and the odor of wet cement. She clutched her cropped, silk and cashmere black cardigan close around her shoulders, while smoke drifted soothingly through her nostrils with a light exhale. The cup of milk laden coffee steamed with delightful wisps, and she brought the ivory colored porcelain to her pout, cherry moistened lips. Red. Deep red. No other color did the lips true justice. Violet called it Harlot red, and there was rarely a time she didn't smudge it against the softness of her lips.
She adjusted in her patio seat beneath a spanned umbrella, the steel boning of her black, over-bust corset a minor discomfort as it nipped her waist down to 21" and pressed firmly against her full, ripened decollete. Gilded pigtails streamed down her back, while feathery bangs split down before her heart-shaped face. A tight black skirt slid to her mid-thigh, with the peaking lace tops of her thigh highs proudly displaying for the world to see, and right in the contour of the muscle, a tattoo of a black siamese rested, carefully carved into her leg.
She re-crossed them and flagged down the waiter. And, although he was by all means not really French, she still affectionately called him 'garçon.'
"Garçon!" She snapped her manicured, red fingertips, and he gave a shit eating grin as he approached her, but she never looked up from the menu. "...Creme brulee, s'il vous plait."
She giggled over the asinine rhyme, and he spitefully responded in his worst possible French accent "Oui, mamselle." as he snatched the menu from her claws. And as far as she was concerned, he left.
She ashed the tip of her cigarette in the crystal ashtray resting on the smooth, red tablecloth, and she scribbled something in the tattered, duct tape coated notebook before her with a classic, black fountain pen. She brought the tip of the pen to her lips, sampling the inky taste that blackened her tongue temporarily, and her brilliant green gaze caught the street.
Human. Human. Human. She sensed in the bustling crowd. Where were the witches? By December, she'd be aging again, although she couldn't complain. Her last victim made her look no older than her late teens, maybe early twenties. It was suitable for now, but a witch in the near future... she flipped a tarot card on the table, and the high priestess gave her mild hope.