Post by Marcus on Jun 6, 2008 7:00:30 GMT -5
Marcus could be found as he was most evenings before he ventured out. He lay rested against the plush sofa in the room equivalent to his study. Long legs stretched out before him as he lent back one arm resting upon the back of the sofa hand cupping his jaw, the other had a slim book laced in his fingers, burgundy eyes scanning over the page as he mused to himself. He was the picture of sophistication, long ebony hair pulled back behind his head. His clothes were a tad outdated yet he managed to carry the simple white tunic styled shirt accompanying dark trousers with elegance.
Perhaps he would go walking tonight, attend a theatre or gallery enjoy what Volterra had to offer. His book was one he had read many a time – Venus in furs. Erotic in a clumsy 19th century tone. It was a favourite of his. Certainly not for the vouching of feminism or misogynous thinking. It was poetically written. A short story about a mans obsession with a single woman, such an obsession he longed to be her slave in every sense of the word and begged her to be his domineering mistress. She of course had been incredibly cruel and willingly played the games he so begged for willingly giving him all he asked to please him until she had taken it a step to far and he lost his will in the face of her new lover.
It wasn’t your usual day to day reading yet Marcus found himself deeply involved in the words. He had once known what it was to feel so strongly for someone you would do anything for them, you would beg hands and knees just for a single glance from them. He had once been so weak. So dominated. So infatuated with a simple woman, who had been nothing before he came to her, who had been absolutely nothing at all and had held such a sway over him even now he found himself thinking of her. He loathed her for it and yet he found himself missing her simple presence and hating this awful weakness that consumed him.
With a thick thud, he snapped the heavy old tome shut casting it lazily to the burgundy carpet unable to stomach its truths anymore. Perhaps a play was in order; maybe a gallery see what new youths had to offer him. Art had come to replace previous passions, he had always savoured it’s beauty and rather enjoyed watching as the world grew more sophisticated in it’s style and in Italy there was beauty to be seen from every window. Artists slaving over something that would never be seen, secret vigour filled playings of violins, flutes, pianos, poets looking out a window hoping for a stroke of inspiration, the youths of the world with their necks pleasantly bare for his taking.
He rose with an eerie elegance to his feet slipping thoughtfully across the room. Sat high upon an oak cabinet was a small case. It was quite forbidden anyone caught with their hands anywhere near it would be at the blunt of his wrath which for the humans and lesser vampires was quite murderous indeed for the rest merely a royal pain. Daintily his pale hands came up to the clips pushing hard with his thumbs against the silver until it popped. Raising the lid he pulled the velvet cloth from the surface and bore one of the only things left in the world as old as he was and as well maintained. The very first instrument he had been gifted with. The very first thing that had brought him into the world of arts. Silently he lifted the polished violin from it’s home, carrying it with the softness of a lover.
He returned to his previous seat flicking the hair falling down his back across his shoulder. Even when playing the happiest of tunes there was something to a violin that seemed only to convey the melancholy. To Marcus the sadder the more beautiful. After but a moment of brief plucking to ensure his old friend was in tune he raised the bow bringing the hair to run across the strings marvelling at the rich sounds that suddenly filled the room from the tiny instrument, his fingers busy moving in a sequence they no longer had to think about. He had once played for his mate at her gentle pleadings just as Severin would have played for his Venus at her harsh demands.
Perhaps he would go walking tonight, attend a theatre or gallery enjoy what Volterra had to offer. His book was one he had read many a time – Venus in furs. Erotic in a clumsy 19th century tone. It was a favourite of his. Certainly not for the vouching of feminism or misogynous thinking. It was poetically written. A short story about a mans obsession with a single woman, such an obsession he longed to be her slave in every sense of the word and begged her to be his domineering mistress. She of course had been incredibly cruel and willingly played the games he so begged for willingly giving him all he asked to please him until she had taken it a step to far and he lost his will in the face of her new lover.
It wasn’t your usual day to day reading yet Marcus found himself deeply involved in the words. He had once known what it was to feel so strongly for someone you would do anything for them, you would beg hands and knees just for a single glance from them. He had once been so weak. So dominated. So infatuated with a simple woman, who had been nothing before he came to her, who had been absolutely nothing at all and had held such a sway over him even now he found himself thinking of her. He loathed her for it and yet he found himself missing her simple presence and hating this awful weakness that consumed him.
With a thick thud, he snapped the heavy old tome shut casting it lazily to the burgundy carpet unable to stomach its truths anymore. Perhaps a play was in order; maybe a gallery see what new youths had to offer him. Art had come to replace previous passions, he had always savoured it’s beauty and rather enjoyed watching as the world grew more sophisticated in it’s style and in Italy there was beauty to be seen from every window. Artists slaving over something that would never be seen, secret vigour filled playings of violins, flutes, pianos, poets looking out a window hoping for a stroke of inspiration, the youths of the world with their necks pleasantly bare for his taking.
He rose with an eerie elegance to his feet slipping thoughtfully across the room. Sat high upon an oak cabinet was a small case. It was quite forbidden anyone caught with their hands anywhere near it would be at the blunt of his wrath which for the humans and lesser vampires was quite murderous indeed for the rest merely a royal pain. Daintily his pale hands came up to the clips pushing hard with his thumbs against the silver until it popped. Raising the lid he pulled the velvet cloth from the surface and bore one of the only things left in the world as old as he was and as well maintained. The very first instrument he had been gifted with. The very first thing that had brought him into the world of arts. Silently he lifted the polished violin from it’s home, carrying it with the softness of a lover.
He returned to his previous seat flicking the hair falling down his back across his shoulder. Even when playing the happiest of tunes there was something to a violin that seemed only to convey the melancholy. To Marcus the sadder the more beautiful. After but a moment of brief plucking to ensure his old friend was in tune he raised the bow bringing the hair to run across the strings marvelling at the rich sounds that suddenly filled the room from the tiny instrument, his fingers busy moving in a sequence they no longer had to think about. He had once played for his mate at her gentle pleadings just as Severin would have played for his Venus at her harsh demands.
